Independent 21 - Phantom 309
by Aadler
Summary: What happens when the world comes looking for the man nobody sees.


**Phantom 309  
** (the Ghost That You Can't See Remix)  
by Aadler  
 **Copyright June 2014**

* * *

Disclaimer: Characters from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ and _Angel: the Series_ are property of  
Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.

This story is a remix, originally intended for Round 4.3 of the Circle of Friends Remix, of "More Than Air" by SunnyD_lite.

* * *

Season: Seventh ( _Buffy_ )  
Spoiler(s): "Fear Itself" (S4-04)

* * *

The meeting was looking to drag on forever, and Xander was simultaneously impatient and fighting a yawn. He tried to assuage both by taking a walk around the conference room. His loafers made no sound on the thick pile carpet, but that didn't really matter, no one would have noticed if he had tangled his feet in one of the chairs and done a cartwheel onto the polished teak tabletop. Arrayed on either side of the table, the conferees snarled and rasped at each other, and the man at the head waited for the latest round of threats and recriminations to subside.

The two sides were … what had Marcie said, Vinji and Sahrvin? Xander had learned enough to ascertain that these demon clans were _not_ of the amiable integrate-into-human-society types, or even private, mundane leave-humans-alone-to-avoid-being-noticed, and after that the details hadn't seemed important. Both sides dressed in something like Middle Eastern desert robes, and they looked like they might have some kind of common ancestral offshoot, but still quite distinct: one side blue-skinned, with red-outlined eyebrows, the other with gray-brown skin and catfish-like whiskers. Of course, all the blue-skins were women (a matriarchal clan, maybe?), and the catfish-whiskers were all male, so maybe the two sexes had different colorings …

Again, it didn't matter. A demon confab, warring clans trying to hammer out a brief, temporary armistice for purposes of their own, and Marcie's handlers had decided that, demons getting along? not good. So Marcie had been sent to take care of that little matter, and Xander was here to do his part in the overall endeavor.

On a smaller table against the wall, there was a cheese tray and a collection of soft drinks. Xander popped the tab on a can of Diet Coke, and took a long swallow while he assessed what he was seeing. He could have called the shot any time in the last twenty minutes, but there were multiple considerations: giving Marcie a favorable angle, picking the right time to facilitate his own departure, even something as basic as getting a feel for tensions in the room so that the hit would have the best emotional impact. The man at the head of the table cleared his throat now, and the others looked toward him: early forties, unassuming expensive suit, he might have been Italian or Lebanese or even just some lightly-tanned guy from Miami. And once more with the not mattering, he was mediating between demon factions and that was undesirable, and Xander would have no qualms about putting him in the X-ring.

(Buffy, of course, would have balked at causing a human death. Well, he wasn't Buffy, and had lived in an entirely different world for years now. He wasn't even the Xander she had known; _that_ Xander had got lost in a frat house, and never found his way out again.)

"Esteemed ones," the mediator began, "your patience and forbearance stand as testament to your strength. Both sides have made concessions to honor the pride of the other, a great reach indeed for historic enemies. Now is the time to take the final steps that will bring you to the goal you both desire —"

Hmm, none of the clan members had spoken English, it was all coughs and snarls and clicks; did they understand it, or was Mediator Boy using some kind of translation enchantment? Either way, Xander's instincts told him this was the moment. He moved around the table to an advantageous spot, and pulled out the laser pointer to which Marcie had calibrated her scope. Invisible to human eyes (and apparently to these demons, too, nobody reacted when he clicked it on), she would be able to track it even through the lowered blinds of this corner room. He paused for a moment, and made his decision: a couple of looping waves so she'd know which end was him and which was the target, then he angled the beam to let the dot fall on the chosen spot.

Without being able to see it, he couldn't direct the beam precisely, but that wasn't necessary; Marcie's scope was IR, she could distinguish forms through the blinds by heat signature, the laser dot was just so she would know which one was the right one. She was the shooter here, he was the spotter, they were a smooth team and this job was pure routine. The sound of the shot never reached the room (Marcie was in a separate building, several hundred yards distant), but the outer window cracked violently as the bullet breached it. Xander was moving for the door the instant he saw his mark's head explode, and shrieks and howls of fury followed him down the hall as he made his unhurried, unnoticed exit. Quick, clean, uncomplicated. Well, except for the one thing, and he'd deal with that part when it arrived. Everything in its place, everything balanced and controlled; that was him now.

He had a city map, but this wasn't his first time here and his memory and instincts proved reliable. Two subway changes and a ten-minute walk (taking a taxi wasn't on the menu for him these days), and he was at the hotel. Marcie had arranged it, as usual — by phone, of course — and they would spend the next few days here, relaxing, before they headed back to Chicago or till the next job came up. Xander took the elevator to the seventh floor and let himself in with his card key; there, he stretched out on the bed, cracked open the little bottle of Jack Daniels from the mini-bar, and waited.

It didn't take long. He hadn't believed for a moment that it would. The bedside phone rang, and he answered with a lazy, "Mm-yeah?"

"Harris, _what the fuck?"_ Marcie sounded like she was ready to explode. She did a lot of that, though she seemed to deal steadily enough with everyone except him. Part of their overall dynamic.

"Problem?" he asked. Not exactly casual, and he knew she'd be able to hear it. They played a lot of games with each other, but that had been going on for so long that it had ceased to qualify as pretense (nobody was fooling anybody here) and was more in the nature of posturing.

"Don't give me that crap," she snarled. "You tagged the head of the Sahrvin delegation. I just blew away a _demon!_ We don't hit demons, you know that!"

"Oh," Xander said. He considered the matter for a moment. "Oops?"

"Spare me," she answered. Still angry, more in control. "Just, _why?"_

Xander nodded; she couldn't see it over the phone, of course, but then communication between the two of them didn't exactly operate along normal channels. "Well, I spent some time taking in the room, right? Not just planning the shot, but looking ahead to effect. We didn't want to just kill the guy, we wanted to bust up the armistice. So while I was soaking up the atmosphere, getting a feel for when would be the right moment, I started thinking."

"Always a bad beginning," Marcie muttered. Yep, he could definitely feel her shaking her head on the other end of the line. "Damn it, Harris!"

"We were supposed to break up the peace talks," he repeated. "Killing the mediator would do that, but then what? The clans bitch for awhile, then they ask for another mediator, and all we've done is kick the can a ways down the road. Kill one of the delegation heads, though, and that's an ambush, that's _betrayal,_ and just like that the clans are back to war, full-bore." He smiled, knowing that it was by no means a nice smile. "If it makes you feel any better, I can almost guarantee our target didn't make it out of the room alive. And if he did, he won't last a week. Those guys were _pissed."_

"They weren't the only ones," she said grimly. "You left me there with my ass hanging out, I had my handler screaming at me over the emergency channel before I finished breaking down the rifle, wanting to know what the _hell_ just happened."

"Oh," Xander said. Damn, he'd thought there would be time for him to fill her in before she had to report. Marcie's outfit must have had an extra observer onsite, or at least nearby. "So what'd you tell him?"

"I said somebody else had taken a shot while I was still waiting for mine to open up. Said it had to have come from the same building I was in, maybe the same floor or maybe one level up or down." She had heard that moment of real concern from him, and her own tone was different now: not mollified, but different. "Don't worry, the bullet was frangible, tungsten-tipped to get through the window glass but it would've gone to pieces inside the target, nobody'll get any ballistics. And I've never used this weapon or this load on any other job, so I'm clear there. But, God _damn_ it, you can't keep doing this to me!"

"Yeah. Sorry. Look, you need me to come to your room for a full debrief when you get back?" Marcie didn't really like to do stuff like that over the phone, even this much was unusual —

The reply was instant and flat. "No. Mood I'm in right now, I'd beat the shit out of you if we were in the same space."

"Right," Xander said. " 'Cause that worked out _so_ well the last time."

(One of the games they played. Marcie had stabilized quite a bit since Sunnydale High, but she was still prickly; the two of them clashed on a regular basis, and now and then she'd act on some of that pent-up aggression. By now Xander was stronger than her — barely — but it wasn't easy to counter attacks you couldn't see coming, and Marcie had learned to make the best use of that: she could hit hard, and make it _hurt_. On the most recent such occasion, though, he'd read the warning signs and met her in a building he'd rigged so that he could cut all the lights at once. _She_ could see _him_ — or at least register his existence, which nobody else could — but the darkness negated that advantage. With neither of them actually looking to kill or maim, they'd done a fair amount of damage to one another, painful but superficial, ultimately a draw. Then they'd done something else.)

There was a silence of almost twenty seconds. "Just hang loose for awhile, okay?" Marcie said at last. "I want to see how this business shakes out before we make any plans."

"Okay," Xander said. "Take care of yourself, Ross."

"Go stick it in a light socket, Harris." _Click._

Xander had barely tasted the whiskey from the mini-bottle of JD. He raised it now in an ironic toast to the ceiling. "To the sweet life," he said, and downed the rest.

~ – ~ – ~

As it happened, his life had improved quite a bit when Marcie found him. Not that he'd been doing too bad before then; the lasting effect on him from the demon-possessed frat house meant that he could operate with impunity, because nobody noticed him. Need food? walk into a restaurant, fill a plate with whatever he wanted, and eat at leisure. None of the other patrons would try to sit in his seat, none of the busy waiters would collide with him, it was as if they subconsciously moved around him. Need clothes? try on whatever he liked, walk out without paying. Need a place to stay? find a motel, take a key to an empty room, relax without care; even if someone else came in, they remained oblivious to him, and he could relocate or not as he chose.

There were disadvantages, though. Any possessions he didn't keep directly on his person _could_ be perceived, and shifted or taken away unless he intervened (though not in any way that would make anyone suspect his presence, that seemed to be hard-wired into his condition). He couldn't actually do anything that might have drawn notice to him: try and leave a message, the pen wouldn't work or the keyboard would glitch or paint would fail to stick to the walls, _something_ always kept it from happening. Which meant he could take a key to a room, but newer hotels were a problem because they used magnetic card-keys and he couldn't program one for a _particular_ room, or make a reservation for himself by any possible means …

Various inconveniences. He had figured how to work around most of them, or to do something else as a substitute. Mostly, though, he was bothered by the loneliness. That was why he'd left Sunnydale after the first couple of weeks: too many familiar faces there, and being ignored by strangers was routine and unobjectionable, but it _hurt_ when someone he knew looked past him without ever realizing he was there. Out in the larger world, he was free of that, but it only gave over to the longer-term cumulative effect of being cut off from the other people in the world. All of them. Everybody.

Everybody except, apparently, Marcie.

She had spotted him at LAX, drawing a beer for himself at one of the airport pubs, and instantly recognized the signs of someone who wasn't being seen. Given their history, it was a wonder she hadn't eased through the crowd and shanked him, or simply ignored him and kept going. Marcie had mellowed since her Sunnydale days, though, or else her tactical vision had broadened, so instead she got close enough to tweak his elbow and murmur in his ear, "If you don't like your life, follow me."

He didn't, so he did.

At the time of her 'recruitment', nearly two hundred invisibles had been processed by Station Zero and slotted into their functions. Marcie had made a post-graduation exercise of finding out exactly _how_ many, and how many had been brought in since. According to her accounting, three hundred and seven others like her were known, tracked and utilized in various ways.

Xander _wasn't_ known, not by anyone except Marcie, and that gave her advantages she had no intention of relinquishing. With a year of solid training and nearly two years in the field, she was already a canny and experienced operator, and the moment she saw Xander she had realized just how valuable he could be to her.

And it worked. For both of them.

For most things.

Xander ambled through the crowded bar/club, listening to the laughter and watching the smiles and occasionally taking a swallow of someone's drink. Even if none of them knew he was here — even if any genuine interaction was impossible — little outings like this kept him feeling connected to the rest of humanity, and his working relationship with Marcie kept that feeling from turning into bitter mockery. Right here, right now, it also provided him a chance to consider his current life in comparison with the one he'd once had in Sunnydale. Yes, he _could_ have done it alone in his room … but there was something stark and uncomfortable about that, and it was just easier out here where he could mix with others and remember that he was still part of the human race.

 _If they could see me now, that little gang of mine …_

Okay, he wasn't actually eating fancy chow and drinking fancy wine, but he _could_ any time he wanted. Marcie's people didn't try to run their invisible agents like something out of _La Femme Nikita_ ; that wouldn't have worked at all, you _couldn't_ both keep people on a tight leash and send them out into the world to carry out operations, especially not people like these. So the leash was firm but light: the better you behaved, the more freedom you got. Marcie liked working with high-level support, and she'd got past (most of) her high-school revenge issues, so she followed the program and earned the rewards.

She wasn't even an assassin, not as her main job; her Sunnydale background made her someone Station Zero could call on when they needed an operator who wouldn't freak out if demons were in the mix, but her actual specialties were close surveillance and clandestine information-gathering. She was very good at ferreting out secrets without ever letting her presence be known … and, once she had educated Xander as to what to listen for in the various offices lining Wall Street, the two of them had built up an extremely comfortable portfolio together.

They didn't need much, and had everything they needed. It was nice, though, to know that the lap of luxury was there for them if they were ever so inclined.

It had been different in Sunnydale. He still (sometimes) missed what he had shared with Buffy, Willow, Giles, but the truth was that he had always been a minor part of a major endeavor. He operated on a lesser stage now … but a larger one, and his part in it was likewise larger. He was _somebody_ now, he was competent and even successful. No comparison to the Xander who had staggered through a series of dead-end jobs while he watched his friends go farther and higher than he himself could ever dream of doing.

So, okay, only Marcie knew of his current status. _Xander_ knew, and that was what mattered most.

Except … except he kept pushing it.

His switching the target today: he had known Marcie wouldn't like that, known it would cause problems for them both, but it had just seemed the thing to DO. And this wasn't the first time, either. It was as if his life had been a desert, and he had stumbled onto an oasis that would keep him alive and even relatively comfortable, only he had to go pissing in the well and bringing in canker beetles to eat the date palms. Was he _trying_ to ruin the actually-sorta-kinda-working life he'd managed to build? Or was he just helpless against the failure curse that was basically part of his bloodline?

This line of thought was _not_ helping his mood. Xander shook it away, and turned his attention firmly to the present.

He had picked out one of the more active singles spots for this outing, and now he observed the quasi-mating rituals around him with the lofty discrimination of a dedicated window-shopper. Couldn't mingle with the ladies, no, couldn't connect with them in any way, but he could watch and enjoy with the relaxed, detached gaze of a look-but-don't-touch connoisseur. He had always had a major love-on for women, but it really seemed to him that he had more _appreciation_ for them now, when his assessment of them was untouched by any remote tinge of possibility.

That one there: she'd styled her hair in a riot of red-gold curls, bold and distinctive, no physical resemblance at all but she carried the same unassailable _Come on,_ **try** _to impress me_ self-assurance that Cordelia had polished to perfection by junior high. The bartender, something about her cheekbones and the throaty, slightly mocking laugh made him think of Miss Calendar. There were several obvious Cordettes, and the blonde with the choker smiled and moved her hands the same way as the sexy barista at the Espresso Pump … Hannah, that was her name! A flash of motion in the mirror, a panther-on-the-prowl stride that would have looked perfectly at home on Faith —

Oh, no way in _hell._

He turned to where he could see her straight-on, but there had never really been any doubt. She looked … he wouldn't say older, but different: not sexy, not angry, not defiant (though all those were still cruising right under the surface), just … intent. Serious.

Faith. Faith in this city. Faith _in this bar._ Years on the Hellmouth had inured Xander to coincidences ridiculous enough to get O. Henry pelted with overripe kumquats, but this one was a little much to chalk up to happenstance. He was going for the door even as she stopped partway across the room and surveyed the bar's interior, and automatically took a route that circled around her at the greatest possible distance. Wouldn't be necessary, she couldn't see him even if both of them tried to make it happen … but this was _Faith,_ and long-untouched but still shivery memories told him it wasn't a time to be taking any chances whatsoever.

Once outside, Xander wanted to put some quick distance between them, and he certainly couldn't call a cab, but he was accustomed to such minor difficulties. He took off his loafers, replaced them with a pair of roller-blades from his backpack, and five minutes later he was nearly a mile away, stroking smoothly down the pavement that bordered the bars and bodegas and other establishments in this stretch of town.

~ – ~ – ~

Back at the hotel, he let himself into his room, stowed the backpack and rollerblades, and settled onto the bed with another bottle of mini-Jack. The outer drapes at the window were open, and brassy sunlight filtered in through the gauzy inner curtain. He watched dust motes drift through the bars of light from the sunset, and took a sip from the bottle. Then he sat up, re-sealed the bottle, sighed, and said, "Ross?"

Marcie tested his alertness on a regular basis, but she never stretched it out. "Yeah," she said from the corner next to the room's television set. "We've got issues."

He was pretty sure he'd managed not to grimace. "Bosses aren't happy, I guess."

"They're not," she confirmed. "But it's not aimed at us. The Sahrvin totally lost their shit, went into full-on vendetta mode and started calling in markers. I was warned to watch out for a high-level hit-team."

Xander almost laughed at the mental picture that triggered. A kill-squad, of whatever stature, against Marcie? Straight-up combat might not be her primary skill-set, but if there was anything worse than facing an invisible opponent, it was _not knowing_ you faced an invisible opponent. Still, that kind of manhunt could cause headaches. "I guess that means it's time to get outta Dodge, huh?"

"Nope," Marcie told him. "I'm supposed to hunker down for awhile, let the heat die out some. Which, yeah, means you basically have to do the same. I figure they want to vary things enough to not leave any kind of travel pattern."

Which made sense; Marcie was unseeable, and Xander so unnoticeable that only she knew he existed, but her handlers wouldn't want any markers pointing back _their_ way. "So, what, then? stay in our rooms, or just humor 'em till they're ready to set you up for transport?"

Her voice had the shape that came from going past a sneer. "I don't plan to launch any invisible-woman rampages, but I'm not about to spend the next week vegging out with Skinemax, either. I'll be as careful as we always are, and then a little extra, but I'll still go wherever I want, whenever I want."

Xander was nodding. For such different personalities, they actually agreed on a surprising number of things. "Look, I really am sorry about this. If I'd known it would cause _this_ much trouble … well, I might have thought about it a little more before putting you on the spot."

There was a silence that could have meant anything; then she asked, "Our partnership here, are you starting to think it's not for you anymore? Is that what this is about?"

Xander sighed, shook his head. "No, it's not that." _I hope. I don't think so._ "We've got a good deal going, I can see that much. It's just …" He grinned. "Well, Marse, you know me. No matter how much I try to focus, I just kinda gotta go off-script every now and then."

Her laugh was a sudden bark that was probably as unexpected to her as to him. "Yeah, I remember. I mean, Christ, your bit at the talent show was a thing of beauty. 'Madness, and stabbing pain, and the heartbreak of psoriasis —!' "

That sounded _exactly_ like him, and at the same time Xander was pretty sure it hadn't gone quite like that. "Huh," he said, surprised. "Didn't know you were in the audience that night."

"One of the highlights of sophomore year. I only caught the closing acts, though. And I heard people saying something about a guillotine, which didn't make any sense at all."

"Different skit," Xander told her. "It was a wacky evening all around."

"Yeah," she said. "We've had a few of those ourselves." This time she was the one who sighed. "Okay, I'll get back and leave you to whatever —"

Xander cocked an eyebrow toward the source of her voice. "Is that what you're going to do?" he asked.

A moment passed before her reply came. "What are you on about _now,_ Harris?"

Her tone was carefully unrevealing, which actually gave Xander all the confirmation he needed. "Ross, correct me if I'm wrong — which, trust me, I know from experience you'll happily do — but … are you naked again?"

The pause this time was longer, at least a full second, and then it was broken by a laugh. "You always know. How do you do that? Jeez, Harris, all the time your library buddies thought you were the 'unpowered' one, did they know about your magic pervo-vision?" Another laugh. "Seriously, how can you tell?"

Xander shrugged, grinning. "If I ever figure that out … well, I'll probably keep it to myself, preserve what mystery I can." (And that much was true, he genuinely didn't know how he knew. Something different, something in the air, something _more_ than air … he always knew, but he couldn't have come close to explaining it.) He shook his head. "I am a little surprised, though. I figured you'd still be kinda annoyed."

She made a scoffing sound, and he could tell she was moving closer. "If I let being pissed off at you stop me, I'd _never_ get any. And that just wouldn't do, this gal needs some relief every now and then." She was by the bed now. "Move over."

Xander did, felt her weight settle on the mattress next to him. "Well, if you're feeling those urges again, I guess I don't have any choice but to give in —"

Her elbow jabbed him in the ribs, not full-power but still sharp. "Gimme a break. You're _always_ in the mood. It's just a matter of whether or not **_I_** feel like getting down and dirty."

"Dirty?" Xander repeated. "Because, as I recall, last time took place entirely in the shower —"

"Too much talking," she growled, and so for a good, active while thereafter, there was no talking at all.

The tone had been set for Xander the very first time, after they had beaten each other bloody in the blacked-out building he had set up to even the odds. It wasn't a fetish thing, it was just … There had always been something a bit unreal about dealing with Marcie, a woman he couldn't see but who had become effectively the only person in his life. That first night, though, with his misleading ( _is she really there at all?_ ) vision negated, with nothing there but breath and bruises and sweat and a perverse, surprising passion, with sight pushed to the background and every other sensation heightened, he had unexpectedly found himself fully back in the land of the living.

And so, whenever possible, he would turn out the lights when they were together, hold her in the dark, immerse himself in feeling. Even if she was just scratching a recurrent itch, it was important to him in a way he would never be so reckless as to admit to her.

Marcie's moods were by no means as mercurial as they had once been, but that didn't mean she had become predictable. Tonight, without explanation, she chose to stay with him, so that he was actually _sleeping_ with a woman in his bed for the first time in … well, ever. It felt so good that he was afraid to let himself recognize the pleasure, lest it be followed by disappointment in the all-too-likely event that Marcie should react to this threatening semblance of closeness by pulling far back and rebuilding all the barriers that had been there at the beginning. Something you desired was something that could be taken away, and he wasn't about to let himself fall into that trap … but it was so tempting to just bask in the false intimacy, and dream that it was real and that he was happy.

Hell, just being able to _pretend_ felt a lot like being happy. At least, what he could remember of it.

He fell asleep with her warm in his arms, and an unmeasured time later he jerked awake with the realization that he had forgotten to tell her about Faith. Even if it really was just a huge, crazy coincidence, a Slayer in town while they were trying to lie low was _significant information._ For a fraction of a second he actually thought of waking Marcie to bring her up to date in this —

— but only for a fraction. Because Marcie knew of his brief "history" with Faith, and this was definitely not the moment to tell a current lover about the presence of a former one.

He'd let her know; it was a professional necessity. He would just have to find a way of imparting the information that didn't launch a Hellfire missile into their present whatever-it-was arrangement.

Not, he thought hazily as he drifted back into slumber, that he wouldn't find _some_ way to screw everything up; that was his basic lifestyle pattern. All the same, he'd delay the inevitable demolition for as long as he could.

~ – ~ – ~

She was gone when he awoke, but back by the time he finished his shower; he could tell because she'd left open the connecting door between their rooms, and her laptop was set up at his desk, keys clicking eerily beneath invisible fingers. "Hey," she called from where he already knew her to be. "Good news, we're back in motion."

"Yeah?" Xander flipped open his suitcase, extracted a new set of clothes, and began dressing without any self-consciousness. "So either they worked up an extraction plan that they _know_ can't possibly be traced, or something's come up so important they're willing to risk it." He glanced toward where Marcie would be, just as if he might learn something from her expression. "Either way, interesting. So which is it?"

"Neither one," she answered happily. "The job's right here. You remember what I said about an elite hit squad? Well, we have better info now. Our people got some hints about who drew the contract, and from the sound of things, it's a very big-league outfit. We've got a chance to learn something about this crew, so my controller wants to know if I can scope them and gather intel while they try and find their target." The grin Xander couldn't see was evident in her voice. "He left it up to me, because the word is that this is a _really_ bad bunch … but I figure, hey, I have you as my secret back-up, so we can draw bonus pay for a standard scouting gig."

"Hmm." Xander thought about it. "If they just came on board, they may start from the site of the hit, try to work their way out." The silence told him he'd guessed right, and also told him more than that. (Honestly, he got as much from Marcie's silences as from what she actually said.) He sighed. "Have a heart, Ross. You know I hate the car."

"Tough noogies," she answered, gleeful at the prospect. "We're on deck, which means we're riding in style."

This was a relatively recent development, and — from Xander's perspective — not particularly welcome, and it was bound up in the differences between his and Marcie's otherwise similar situations. She was someone people couldn't see … but Xander was someone people _didn't_ see. Didn't see, didn't notice, didn't recognize his existence at all. That meant there were some things he simply couldn't do, if the doing would have drawn notice to him; and, in this case, "couldn't" meant "impossible" rather than simply "forbidden". If he spoke, no one would hear him, so no problem; if he hit someone, though, or even shoved them, _that_ would be noticed … probably. He didn't know for sure, because he'd never done it, and that was because … well, he just couldn't. Couldn't think of a good reason to do it, couldn't decide quickly enough when there _was_ a good reason, couldn't get himself set right or his feet untangled or _something_ going wrong the few times he'd actually made the attempt. People couldn't register his presence, and he couldn't draw attention to himself, and those two things were the bedrock of his current state of being. Which likewise meant he couldn't drive, because there just seemed to be too many different ways a vehicle under Xander-control could imminently threaten the do-not-notice rule.

Marcie's problem was different: she could drive, but people _would_ notice a vehicle maneuvering without a visible operator. She had wondered, however, if their respective attributes might balance one another, and figured out how to test it and how to take advantage if it proved out (she was a fiend for grabbing whatever advantage might be gained, was Marcie), and _finally_ prevailed upon him to give it a try —

— and it worked. Get a car with right-side steering (not always available through local rental, but it could occasionally be found), stick Xander in the passenger side that would normally be perceived as the driver side, apply a bit of makeshift tinting to make it less obvious where the steering wheel was turning, and Xander's nothing-to-see-here aura seemed to take care of the rest.

It worked, and clearly there would be times when such ready self-transport would be a major deal, but Xander disliked it intensely. Part of that was that Marcie's driving was more than a little slapdash, but mainly it was placement: sitting on the "driver side", watching traffic come at him from that perspective but _with no control_ … it freaked him the hell out, and doubtless he'd get used to it in time but that time wasn't yet.

Not that Marcie cared. "Sack up, Harris," she said as the dismayed expression stayed on his face. "I'm not going through the hassle of sneaking on and off a city bus just because you're a big puss."

"Have a heart," he groaned. "I keep you satisfied sexually, isn't that worth anything?"

"Sure." The grin was back in her voice, and — _oof!_ — there was the elbow to the ribs. "But what have you done for me _lately?"_

At the end of the customarily harrowing drive, Marcie parked a few blocks from the scene of yesterday's hit, to avoid drawing notice. Xander got out on his side (nobody would pay him any attention), then opened Marcie's door for her (likewise ho-hum). Without needing to discuss it, he and Marcie headed for the building together. They'd worked this way before; in fact, her experiment with the car had been inspired by previous successful blending of their slightly dissimilar attributes. Sometimes doors wouldn't open for Xander, if some unknown circumstance meant the opening would draw attention, and elevators could be a total nightmare. Marcie would open those doors, or push the buttons and get the response he was denied, and then his own personal field would blunt any observer's awareness of _her_ if said observer happened to be alert enough to otherwise detect scent or faint sounds or the vague moving impressions of her feet on thick carpet. (It could happen. It _had_ happened. With Xander there, it basically didn't happen.) It wasn't a perfect system, but it provided a decided edge that they had learned how to use for their benefit.

Once inside the main lobby, Xander moved well away from the entry doors to take them clear of incoming traffic, and stopped to do a quick survey. This building had hosted a demon truce-conference, so the people managing it had to know at least a bit about the supernatural, which meant he didn't want to be taking anything for granted. Nothing seemed particularly out of the ordinary —

— except for one guy in a gray suit, standing oh so casually over by the escalator. Slender, wearing a single earring, silver like the signet ring on his right hand, and he looked no older than a high school student. His hair was oddly streaked, though, and his eyes smoothly and constantly swept the interior of the lobby, and …

Xander and Marcie had come in right behind another man, and Xander was suddenly glad of that, because by the third such cycle he was certain: every time Streak Boy's gaze came to where they stood, his eyes _tried_ to rest on them for a quarter of a second before moving on. Very quietly Xander said, "That one."

"Yeah," Marcie returned, even softer; so low, in fact, that he could hear her only because her lips were against his ear. Having her so close, feeling her breath on his skin, stirred something odd in him, but there was no time to think about it right now. "Senser?" she wondered, still barely audible.

"Maybe." Xander would have liked to get a close look at the guy, but decided against it. "Better use the fire stairs."

The meeting room where the hit had gone down was on the fifth floor, so they only had to go up a few flights. "I wasn't expecting a senser," Marcie observed. "Looks like your Mister Nobody deal is still holding, but we can pull out any time you want."

"We'll see," Xander told her, both annoyed at the distraction and gladdened by this demonstration of what could be interpreted as concern. Truth was, he didn't want to back away; he _liked_ working with Marcie, enjoyed how well the two of them performed together. It was something to take pride in …

… except, did it actually matter? Doing a good job was one thing, but did the job really need to be done? Sure, _this_ one had carried some heft (demons settling into more efficient operations was not at all desirable), but most of the tasks he and Marcie carried out for Station Zero were, ultimately, trivial. Challenging, even rewarding — in the money-and-comfort sense — but not … not _significant_ in the metric that had once ruled his life.

He shook it away. The white knight stuff was far behind him now, and the truth was that he had always pretty much sucked at it. Satisfying or not, this was where he was now.

On the fifth floor, the carefully drawn normality of the main lobby was promptly punctured. Small groups of Sahrvin hissed and snarled among each other, while human wait-staff circulated with trays of drinks and canapés. The Vinji seemed to be absent from today's conclave, which was probably prudent since most of the Sahrvin bore weapons, mainly tulwars and short curved sabers. Xander could see a couple of obvious security guys watching over the proceedings while keeping their distance, but the real focus became apparent as his eyes went to the meeting room where the Sahrvin leader's skull had been so rudely perforated. There, a man in a brown hooded robe of the general monk-type (except Xander's first thought had been 'Obi-wan type') was working his hands furiously over what looked like a small, boiling cloud of light-shot orange mist. The mist kept fading, then firming when Monk Guy redoubled his efforts, but it winked out and dissipated as Xander watched. Monk Guy scowled and shook his head, and began speaking to someone Xander couldn't see to one side of the door. "Wait here," he murmured to Marcie, who had found a safe spot up against one wall by a small potted tree, and moved to get a better look.

He could hear the voices as he got closer, but it wasn't in any language he knew. From a nearer angle he could see that Monk Guy was talking to a woman clad in dark leather; her hair was done up in dreads, even though it was a mousy color that the style didn't suit, and her cheeks and the backs of her hands were tattooed with runes. Both of them wore silver rings, Xander saw, like Streak Boy downstairs, and he eased in to scope things closer. People wearing the same jewelry, that usually meant something, and was that a detection or tracing spell Monk Guy had been trying to work —? Okay, yeah, sure enough, the rings had a kind of pattern, it reminded Xander a little of the logo Hydra had used in some of the old _Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D._ comics, or of interlocking tree roots, or …

And then he remembered _exactly_ what it reminded him of, where he had seen it before, and drew back as if the room were full of cobras. Back the way he had come, he made a curt gesture toward where Marcie should be waiting, not even trusting himself to speak. A moment later he felt her behind him, and kept going until they were at the bank of elevators, far enough away from any people or movement to allow his paranoia to relax just the least bit. "Oh, Christ," he said softly, pushing the button to summon an elevator.

"What?" Marcie asked, still whisper-soft. "What was it?"

"Bad news," Xander replied, almost as quiet. _"Really_ bad news. Those Sahrvin assholes called in the Order of Taraka." Feeling the blankness from Marcie (yes, he could feel it even if he couldn't see her face), he went on. "League of assassins. Legendary: they never drop a job for _anything_ except non-payment. Mixed roster, demons and wizards and some really nasty humans who're pretty much as bad." He stabbed at the DOWN button again with his finger. "As soon as we get back, you call your handler and tell him you saw the guy in the lobby trying to see you, almost-seeing you, and you backed the hell off right then. Because, trust me, we do _not_ want to be anywhere near these fucks."

She didn't answer because the elevator _ding!_ ed arrival then, and they would have stepped into the car as the doors opened but they moved back instead because someone was coming out, and Xander's heart lurched with dread and understanding.

Faith. Of _course_ it was Faith. Out of the coma, and no evil mayor around to take care of her, so she'd naturally gravitate to something like the Order. Kill for kicks, kill for revenge, kill for orders, why _not_ kill for pay? She walked past them, going the way they had come from … then she stopped, looking back with a slight frown, and as her eyes passed over Xander twice, he saw the same split-second hesitation Streak Boy had shown downstairs.

Faith _wasn't_ a senser, and Xander had seen years ago that the standard Slayer perceptions didn't register him at all. Detection spell, then? Trying to aim the Tarakans at their target, but still not quite enough to pick him up? (Or confused because he and Marcie had done the hit together, but working simultaneously from separate locations?) While he was still wondering, the perplexity faded from Faith's expression, and she turned back and continued on her way.

The elevator doors hissed closed behind them, and Xander hit the DOWN button again, to no result; he'd been too slow, and now they'd have to wait for the next car. "Crap," Marcie was saying. _"Another_ one? How many hitters do these Trockas throw in at once, anyway?"

Oh, hell, he _still_ hadn't told her about Faith, and then Xander heard shouting and the clang of steel from around the bend where the dark Slayer had gone, and automatically he was sprinting for the sound.

He was in the past again, it was 1999 and one of his people was in trouble, and his reflexes were running him even while a protesting part of his mind tried frantically to catch up. He broke into the area ringed by conference rooms and saw Faith tearing through the gathered Sahrvin with a bloody tulwar, she was a cyclone of fury and steel and slaughter but there were _dozens_ of them, she'd be overwhelmed in seconds. Monk Guy had been smashed completely through a lacquered partition and hung there limp, his body caught on the jagged splinters; Leather Girl lay eight feet away, gasping blood from a cut that had gone through her collarbone and partway down into her chest. A short-sword slid from her slackening fingers, greenish metal and an eerie flickering glow along the blade, and Xander unthinkingly snatched it up and leaped to Faith's aid.

Crazy, stupid, he _couldn't_ affect anyone around him, but he was already swinging and the Sahrvin in front of him showered its neighbor with abruptly liberated brains. Xander twisted, and his lateral follow-up cut opened the throat of another Sahrvin. He could fight demons, maybe it was the sword but _he could fight demons now!_ , and he waded in with all his strength and desperation, hearing Marcie swear next to him in exasperation and seeing one of the Sahrvin sabers, bodiless, rise up from where it had fallen and begin slashing and hacking with deadly effect.

In terms of numbers, the odds were obscene, but the Sahrvin couldn't focus on Faith while invisible enemies cut them down at the edges, nor could they turn away from a rampaging Slayer to search for adversaries they couldn't see. Some tried to do both, and died; others floundered, bewildered, and died; most, after thirty seconds of such awful carnage as they had never before experienced, settled the matter for themselves by dropping their weapons and fleeing.

The humans who'd been attending them, of course, were long gone. Faith stood among a mass of demon bodies, breathing hard; then she looked around, and her gaze focused and firmed. "Don't know how long we got till building security gets here," she gasped, "so I'll make this quick. Bad stuff gatherin' back in Sunny-D; fucker calls itself the First Evil, and it's got a serious mess goin'. B's calling in everybody, and I mean _everybody_ : they found Oz, they got some gal who does TK and a big goof they call Groo … hell, they recruited me 'n' _Spike,_ that'll show how desperate they are!"

She wasn't actually looking at him, Xander realized; Marcie, Marcie was standing far enough from him that Faith could tune in on her. "They want you, too," Faith was continuing. "Red finally got a general fix on you, sent me with a spell s'posed ta lead me the rest of the way. _That_ ain't been workin' so hot —" She gestured at the demon corpses about her. "— and I sure as shit didn't expect to run into these catfish-faced jerkwads, but … well." She looked closer, still trying to see the him that wasn't there. "Judgin' by results, you for damn sure got somethin' to offer. If you're interested, your call. But they want you, and …" She hesitated, forged on. "An' as for me, I wanted to apologize, about … about before. Maybe it wasn't a 'connection', but it wasn't just skin, either."

Xander didn't answer, couldn't think of anything he might possibly say. Faith shook her head sharply. "Can't make you come along if that ain't your scene," she said. "You're needed, though, an' there are people back there been missin' you big-time. Call, or write, or follow me, or just blow us all off, your choice. But you've been told." There was the distant _ding!_ of another arriving elevator car, and Faith shook her head again. "Later," she said, and dashed for the fire stairs.

Xander started moving for the set at the opposite corner of the building; this would shortly be a very bad place to be hanging around. "You okay?" he asked Marcie, already able to tell she was behind him.

"That was Faith, right?" she said in reply. "Whoa, you weren't exaggerating about her, the stories you told. You didn't even come _close."_

"Yeah, yeah." He waved it away. "Just tell me you're okay."

"I've got some kind of little cut on my side," she admitted. "It stings like a bitch. That's all."

Good. And then he remembered what had happened, what he had seen but not had time to think about. "You were with me," he said.

"What? Sure I was, we went in together —"

"In the fight," he interrupted. "It wasn't your fight … hell, it wasn't _my_ fight, I just jumped in without thinking, which is par for the course for me. But you were there, too. Right in there with me."

She made a _chh!_ of impatience. "Well, where the hell else was I going to be?"

He had no answer for that. They were back at the car before he spoke again, and that was to ask, "Are you good to drive?"

Her answer was a snort. "I'm sure not letting _you_ behind the wheel!"

His mind was whirling with too many thoughts for any single one to settle. Back at the hotel, Marcie said briskly, "I'm grabbing a quick shower, wash off some of the sweat and demon guts. Pack fast; those Trocka bastards are going to go ape-shit, and if they can call in sensers, I want to be way the hell somewhere else." And then she was gone, leaving the connecting door open again.

Xander had brought along very little for this job, and didn't actually need any of it. He packed it all, though — it wouldn't do to leave anything that could be used for a tracking spell, which was what Monk Guy had probably been trying to work up — and then sat on the bed to wait for Marcie's return. A great, empty ache swelled in his chest. He had known something like this was creeping closer, had felt it grow even while he tried to deny its form. Limited as it was, he had a _life_ with Marcie, and he was about to lose that, and he'd known it was coming but that didn't mean it hurt any less.

And she was back, not trying to hide the sound of her re-entry. "Ready to go? Good. I had my gear all set before we left, you never know when you'll need a fast exit, so let's get going."

Xander swallowed miserably. "Marcie —" he began.

"Save it," she broke in. "You're going back to Sunnydale. You know it, I know it, so let's skip past the build-up. Things have been shaky lately, so I could tell something was in the wind. Then you grab up Glow-y the Wonder Blade — I notice you kept that, by the way — and wade into those Sahrvin jagoffs, and all of a sudden _I'm_ playing back-up to _you_ … role reversal on the fly, and wasn't _that_ fun?" She gave a sharp little laugh. "So, yeah, it's pretty clear that Station Zero is about to lose the services of Invisible Agent Number Three Hundred and Nine. We had a good run there, but I won't cry about it."

"Marcie …" He drew an unsteady breath. "Will you … will you come, too? Come with me?"

There was a blank pause of a second, and then: "Are you _kidding_ me?" What came next wasn't an elbow to the ribs, but a full punch in the shoulder, and a hard one. "Jesus, Harris, did you ever really think I was about to give you a _choice?"_

He felt recognition, realization, relief sweep over him in waves of cold and hot and numb and wonder, but now his voice was under control. "So, that was a yes?"

"If they're spinning up Armageddon back there," she said, suddenly grave, "I guess I'm still a Sunnydale girl at heart." And then the glee was back. "Besides, you have to know that _two_ invisible assassins can make a hell of a difference when things get hot!"

"Okay, then." He reached back to pick up the single suitcase from beside the bed, gladness and disbelief threatening to roll him under like a tsunami. "I guess we'll work out the details as we go —" He stopped, letting himself feel the air around him, and crinkled one eyebrow. "Marcie … you're naked again, aren't you?"

He felt her lips on his cheek, and then on his mouth. "Only for you, Harris," she told him, her voice like a caress. "Only for you."

 _—_

end


End file.
